Tall, Dark, and Medieval

by Barbara Devlin

  And how he suddenly looked forward to the exceptional event, which represented a drastic shift in his perspective in a short span of time.

  At first when they slipped between the sheets the previous night, whilst they cuddled abed, his lower territories had remained stubbornly dormant and impervious to her influence. But at some point throughout the wee hours, when she cuddled close, and her warm soft body caressed his frame, he decided the marital condition posited unforeseen benefits, chief among them his bride’s beauty, which he savored in the dim light from a single taper. Thither, beneath the clear blue sky, the sun’s bright rays, and amid a throng of servants, soldiers, and knights, Arucard could have taken his wife in the wagon, with all present as witnesses to the deflowering. However, he had no intention of baring his backside to a mixed audience.

  “As I said, I will not pressure thee.” With care, he planted her safely on the bench and winked, as he squeezed her ankle. “But at this moment, I am infinitely grateful to the King.”

  “Oh, so am I.” A rosy hue about her face bespoke the truth of her much-cherished declaration, and she brushed the back of her knuckles to his cheek. “May I confess, when we took our vows, I knew not what to expect, but I am not so afraid, anymore, and I have thee to thank for that?”

  “Then let us away, as our new home awaits.” And the future seemed bright, indeed. Humming a flirty little ditty, Arucard turned—and halted.

  Standing in a half-circle, with rigid postures, arms folded, and impressive scowls, his brethren formed a formidable line of resistance and disapproval, and he guessed at their objection. Their long-held beliefs proscribed overt displays of affection, yet their credence had not accounted for a papal betrayal, a hasty exile, an impromptu commission under a new monarch, and an unplanned union. Not to mention, he had yet to divulge the fact that the Nautionnier Knights had been commanded to take brides chosen by His Majesty, on a date to be named. But he would fight that battle at the appropriate time.

  “Not a word, brothers.” In a few steps, he climbed into the saddle of his destrier and grasped the reins. “Now gain thy mounts, as we have much to achieve, and the day grows old.”

  #

  The evening sun danced on the horizon, and a cool wind lashed the cover of her wagon, as the procession pulled into an open field for the night. A copse of trees formed an informal border, of sorts, and from her bench seat, Isolde peered at her knight and smiled, which he returned in equal measure. For the better part of the journey, thus far, she had passed the time in idle reflection, admiring her husband’s glorious physique and patrician profile. Instead of riding at the front of the line, in a position of prominence, Arucard remained near; casting haphazard glances, always accompanied by a grin, which she found infectious, in her direction, as though he guarded a most precious cargo.

  “My lady, thou hast not said much, but I would ascertain thy condition that I might serve thee.” With her head bowed, Margery averted her gaze. “I have soothing bath oils and an acopon for the pain, should thou need to recover from thy consummation.”

  “Thither is no need for such potions and balms, old friend.” Mulling her restful night, Isolde chuckled. “My husband is a thoughtful and considerate man, and he granted a deferment until we art better acquainted.”

  “What?” Panic invested her tone, as Margery wrenched Isolde’s arm. “Dost thou mean ye hast not sealed thy vows?”

  “Wherefore dost thou worry?” Given her husband’s patience and noble nature, Isolde covered the housekeeper’s hand, as thither was no cause for alarm. “Really, thou must calm thyself, else thou wilt give thyself a terrible megrim. And Arucard is the kindest and gentlest spouse. What have I to fear?”

  “Dost thou not see the danger of thy position, child?” With a half-sob, Margery bit her bottom lip. “My lady, what the archbishop hath done, thy father can have undone, on a whim. Until thou dost surrender thy maidenhead to Sir Arucard, he owns thee not. And though I hesitate to speak of it, as the earl employed me, I suspect Lord Rochester doth conspire against the Crown.”

  “Nonsense.” Then Isolde recalled the letter, which she had yet to read, that her father had passed during their awkward farewell, and she pulled the envelope from her fitchet. “I am positive thou dost misunderstand the situation, as Father is a complicated man.”

  “My lady, I beg thy indulgence.” Inhaling a shaky breath, Margery stared at Anne. “Wherefore dost thou not set up a fire, so we may prepare dinner?”

  “But thou art about to discuss something of interest.” Pouting and grumbling her protest, Anne shuffled to the bench and jumped from the wagon. “I always have to do the dirty work.”

  “Because that is thy occupation.” Margery wagged a finger. “Now mind thy manners, cease thy complaints, and tarry not, else thou mayest walk back to London.”

  “Do not be so hard on her, as she hath had her life upended.” Then again, Isolde had confronted similar chaos in her circumstances, yet fate smiled upon her, as Arucard seemed more a blessing than a curse, and she counted herself fortunate. “And as for my stalwart spouse, he is not what he appears. Regardless of his formidable stature and somewhat abrupt demeanor, Sir Arucard is a soul of compassion.”

  “My dear, at the end of the day, he is the King’s servant, His Majesty ordered the marriage, and all men desire political advances. Dost thou not fathom the reality of thy situation?” With desperation in her visage, the housekeeper grabbed Isolde’s wrist. “As long as thou dost remain a virgin, thy nuptials can be annulled. Whilst thy faith in Sir Arucard is commendable, thou dost hardly know him. He can, at this very instant, sue for dissolution of the marriage on the grounds that thou hast failed to perform thy wifely duty, and no one will argue otherwise. Given Lord Rochester’s disposition, and his propensity for violence whither thou art concerned, dost thou believe thou wilt survive his wrath should thee shame the family?”

  The confidence Isolde coveted had just vanished.

  “If what thou dost say is true, and I suspect thou art correct, as thy instincts have always been infallible, then I should make myself available to him—tonight.” At the prospect, she gulped but then ticked off an imaginary list. “Margery, pluck two chickens, and locate the stores of rice and honey, while I mash the almonds. And have Anne set up the small table from Sir Arucard’s wagon.”

  “What art thou going to do?” The steward furrowed her brow.

  “Just as thou dost suggest, but I would soften him with my blancmange.” Again, Isolde remembered the correspondence in her fitchet, and she withdrew the missive. “Go, worrisome friend, and do as I ask, as I would not serve my husband a maw-wallop on our special night.”

  Alone, Isolde fingered the wax seal and then cracked it. As she unfolded the parchment, a chill of dread, which augured doom, shivered down her spine, and she clenched her teeth. The opening salutation foretold disaster, and she knew not what to make of the details the note contained, but she did not, for a brief second, trust her father.

  My darling Isolde,

  By now thou art wedded and bedded to a foul animal with immoderate inclinations, and thy only hope for survival is to remain loyal to thy family. Please know I had no choice in the matter of thy betrothal, as I serve the King. As thy father, I claim thy allegiance that I might save thy soul and enact thy eventual rescue. Whilst the consummation of thy vows could not be avoided, and we shall seek absolution from the archbishop once thou art free from the monster thou hast married, know that my heart weeps for thee. Watch Sir Arucard closely, and report to me any revelations, however thou mayest deem insignificant, as thou art incapable of discerning important facts from trivial details. If possible, try to learn of his background and connection to the Crown. And what is the origin and location of Sir Arucard’s fortune? I expect a response from thee, posthaste.

  Thy loving father, Lord Rochester

  Her loving father? Had he been drunk when he composed the letter, because never had he made such a declaration? At once, everything inside h
er railed against her father’s claims, and a wave of nausea rocked her belly, as Isolde believed the worst of him. And despite her brief association with Arucard, she doubted him not. Yet Father presented a threat she could neither ignore nor suppress.

  Searching the area, as her first instinct was to inform her husband of the dubious request, she frowned when she could not locate her knight. Soldiers and servants scattered in all directions, setting up tents and lighting fires to service the encampment. Then she spotted her spouse standing amid his friends, and she steered for him, determined to disclose the entire contents of the malevolent message and seek counsel.

  “My lady, I found the ingredients thou dost require, and the chickens art almost ready.” Stepping into Isolde’s path, Margery wiped her hands on a cloth. “For the best flavor, thou should pound the breasts whilst they art fresh. After all, thou dost not want to give thy husband any reason to regret wedding thee.”

  When the significance of Margery’s hapless warning struck Isolde, she halted and reconsidered her course of action. Father’s correspondence marked her as a collaborator of the worst sort, and thither was no guarantee Arucard would believe her an innocent, given their brief association, despite sincere protestations of blamelessness. A wise woman would soften her husband’s mood before relaying bad news.

  “Help me, Margery.” Isolde thrust the offensive dispatch into her fitchet, grabbed an apron, laced it behind her, and snatched a heavy dowel, which she used to mash the meat. “Tonight, it is imperative I serve the best blancmange Sir Arucard hath ever tasted. And send one of the manservants to station a barrel of ale, as my husband prefers it to wine.”

  “Yes, my lady.” The housekeeper half-curtseyed as Isolde poured milk into a pan. “Shall I set the special table for the two of thee, mayhap, in thy tent?”

  “What a wonderful idea—wait.” Then Isolde snapped her fingers. “Disregard that order, as I would do something else, entirely. I want a position of distinction, but not for us, and not in private. Rather, I would have thee situate enough seating for Sir Arucard and his knights, in a place of honor and prominence, as I would have him know I esteem him and his men. And I will dine with thee and Anne.”

  “But thy place is at Sir Arucard’s side.” In the makeshift outdoor kitchen, Margery untied a bag, which she handed to Isolde. “Careful not to burn the milk, my lady.”

  “I will take care of this, and thou should secure additional assistance, as we must feed everyone in our traveling party.” She added rice to the pan and stirred the contents with a wooden spoon. “And can thou find Anne and have her search out the bread?”

  “Now whither did I pack the trenchers?” With arms folded, Margery furrowed her brow and inspected the various trunks filled with cooking implements. “Oh, never mind. Let me see to the dining area, and then I will return to forage for the utensils.”

  The despicable petition weighed heavy on her heart and mind, as Isolde tarried, and while her thoughts raced, she could seize upon no clear solution to her quandary. No matter how she sliced it, the ignoble entreaty put her at odds with her new spouse, when she sought accord. Wherefore could Father not leave her in peace?

  Closing her eyes, she slipped beyond the present and traveled back to her last day at home. Amid lash after brutal lash, Father made no secret of his utter contempt for her. Bereft of breath from the exertion necessary to deliver the blows, he sputtered and laughed at her sharp inhalations, which kept rhythm with his beating as she braced for the strike and accompanying pain. At one point, he professed a deep-seated hatred of Isolde, and she bore his ire to spite him, which seemed to further incite his fury and abuse.

  Yea, she could have relented, could have collapsed in a heap of tears and begged him to stop, but she refused to grant him the satisfaction of victory. Instead, she persevered as she always had, and he thrashed her until he buckled, presumably from exhaustion, and could deliver no more punishment. And should Sir Arucard develop the same penchant for her flesh and blood, she would respond in similar fashion, even if it killed her, because she knew no other way.

  After the small army of servants set up camp, Isolde’s pudding firmed, and Anne assisted in making enough food for everyone else, Margery summoned the group to supper. As was tradition, the women in the party distributed ample portions to the men and then served themselves. It was only when Isolde perched on a bench that she chanced a glance at her husband.

  Chuckling with his knights, he scooped a bite with his fingers and brought the fare to his mouth. To her amusement, he paused, sniffed the morsel, and sampled the dish. When he snapped to attention, peered left and then right, spied her, and waved, she gulped. Just as quick, he elbowed Demetrius, who scooted to one end, and then Arucard again motioned for her to join him.

  Nervous, her hands shook as she collected her meal and goblet of wine. With cautious strides, she navigated the sea of travelers until she loomed before her mate and curtseyed. “My lord.”

  “My lady.” He stood, rounded the table, took her trencher, grasped her wrist, and led her to a spot at his side. “Wherefore dost thou hide with the maids?”

  “I did no such thing.” Too late, she reminded herself not to argue with him, as the husband was always right. And she had yet to share Father’s diabolical letter. “I merely show deference, as a good and dutiful wife.”

  The knight called Aristide snorted, and Demetrius snickered, but the remaining warriors all but ignored her.

  “As a good and dutiful wife, thou should know thy place is with me.” For a scarce second, Arucard appeared vexed, and then he smiled, which put her at ease, as he settled himself. “This blancmange is outstanding. And I must beg my mother’s forbearance, as never have I tasted its equal. Is that not right, brothers?”

  “The pudding is sufficient—ouch.” Aristide flinched and grimaced. “I mean, yea. By God’s bones, the food is delicious.”

  “The lady Isolde is a fine cook.” Shifting his weight, Demetrius shot a wicked scowl at Arucard. “So thou mayest spare my shins, brother.”

  “I know not of what thou speak.” Pounding his fist atop the table, which gave her a start, Arucard narrowed his stare. “And is that the sum of adulation and gratitude my bride earned for her labors?”

  In unison, Geoffrey and Morgan muttered almost incomprehensible compliments.

  “Praise, indeed.” Bowing her head, she bit her tongue to stave off laughter. To Arucard, she whispered, “Dost thou verily like it?”

  To wit he leaned close, winked, and replied, “I would have married thee for thy blancmange, alone.”

  #

  It was late when Arucard shuffled into the tent he would share with Isolde. When he drew back the interior panel, he discovered Pellier sitting on a stool near the huge ancere, a wedding present from the King, created to accommodate Arucard’s large frame.

  “Whither is Lady Isolde?” Glancing about the sizable temporary abode, Arucard suspected she remained with the servants, because it had not taken long to discern his wife possessed an admirable work ethic. “Has she returned from the night’s feast?”

  “I would not know, sir.” The marshalsea carried a towel from the washstand. “Shall I help thee disrobe and bathe?”

  “Do not take insult, old friend.” After unfastening his belt and stripping off his tunic, Arucard sat on the hastily erected bed and doffed his boots, as he selected his words with care, because he would not incite discord between his bride and his manservant. “Methinks, mayhap, now I am married, thou should no longer tend my personal needs. At least, not until I negotiate such details with Lady Isolde. In future, we shall confine thy services to battle preparation and maintenance of my armor and weapons, unless I command otherwise.”

  “A very shrewd decision, my lord. And I would not ruffle that haughty maid Margery, given her quick temper.” With a grin, Pellier bowed. “By thy leave, I wish thee a pleasant rest.”

  “And I bid thee the same.” Heaving a sigh, Arucard stood, walked to the back corn
er, and opened his trunk. In pursuit of fresh braies and a clean linen shirt, he flipped through his belongings, secured the necessary items, and then removed his remaining clothing. Naked, he eased into the ancere, reclined, sank beneath the surface of the hot water, and closed his lids.

  In a flash, visions of a green-eyed angel with lush black hair danced in his thoughts. He had known her for two days, yet she was his woman, and that singular realization inspired all manner of naughty notions and foreign sensations. Then again, as she was his bride, was it not natural to desire her?

  Minutes later, a frolicsome hum snared his attention, and he peeked through his lashes just as Isolde entered the tent. In the faint light of a single brazier, she had not noticed him, and he sat mesmerized as she stepped from her shoes, lifted her skirts, removed her garters and hosiery, and unbuttoned her cotehardie. Without warning, his unusually exuberant nether dragon breathed fire. When she turned, she gazed straight at him and shrieked.

  “My lord Arucard, I did not see thee when first I entered our tent.” In an instant, she averted her stare, and he would wager she blushed, which amused him for some odd reason. “Let me restore my clothing, and I will wait outside whilst thou dost wash.”

  “Do not be foolish.” In a show of modesty, he shielded his crotch with a small cloth. “Thou need not—”

  “Actually, it is my duty to assist thee.” Contrary to her outward behavior, which bespoke internal discomfit, the quick alteration in her manner caught him unaware, but when she dropped her outer garment, leaving naught more than her sheer chemise to cover her enthralling female curves, he came alert. “As thy wife, I should scrub thy back and whatever else thou dost require. And if it is no inconvenience, I would use the ancere once thou art finished.”

  Whatever he had expected her to say, that was not it, and he sloshed water as he sat upright. It occurred to him then that he had no real concept of the matrimonial state, and they had yet to determine the rules of engagement. “Isolde, cleanliness is part of my discipline, it is ingrained in my character, and I do not demand such habits of thee. But if thou dost wish to share my daily ritual, I would have thee bathe first.”